


Little Garden of Horrors

by moon_opals



Series: Daughters of Fortune [1]
Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: AU, Family, Flowers, Gen, Ghost butlers are the best, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-06-30 16:51:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15755853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_opals/pseuds/moon_opals
Summary: A game of hide and seek sends the past to the present. Louie and Webby have to correct their mistake before Scrooge eats his hat.





	1. A Ball of Wibbly Wobbly, Timey Wimey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All it takes for someone to mess with a time machine for things to get messy.

Hide and seek. Their decision was made on a whim after their school lessons were concluded. Webby grasped the game’s simple rules five seconds after Huey’s explanation, and she squealed in poorly controlled enthusiasm, unable to wait for the boys to choose a seeker.

She ran down the corridors, wondering what hiding area would name her champion hider. Each room held potential. A dimensional hopping corner, a hidden wall, a secret compartment under the floorboards leading to unimaginable horrors, and she knew her best friends were capable of discovering each of these with little to  great effort, depending on the seeker.  
  
Webby stopped, clasping her hands in prayer position. “It needs to be good. It needs to be best,” she mumbled aloud, able to hear the distant counts to thirty or maybe fifty.  
  
She nearly slipped on a small tuff of hair on the floor, and she grunted, testing its fluffy texture. “Oh Bolivar,” she groaned, dropping the abandoned strands, “Granny is going to have to give you a haircut.”  
  
There was no time to falter. In her impatience, she didn’t know the designated number count. He may have stopped at twenty, forty-five, or even one hundred. Jumping on her toes, she flickered to each of the doors, weighing their potential until she made it to the last door on the left.  
  
An arbitrary decision, the chosen door wasn’t spectacular in anyway. Its faded paint was somewhat chipped, but Webby knew, for one reason or another, this was the door for her. Hearing the voice grow stronger, she hurried inside without a second thought, and gasped a little at the sight.  
  
“Scrooge’s private study.” Closing the door, she stifled an amazed giggle-cackle. This room was one of Scrooge’s many private studies. His mansion had countless studies currently abandoned or forgotten, and she had visited the majority of them, except for this one. She pranced to the bookcases and fingered the worn, dusty leather spines, childish glee squirting out of her mouth every second.  
  
Webby swirled in the new room’s knowledge. She was transfixed, and didn’t hear the door quietly open. She didn’t hear the intruder’s quiet footsteps. Curled on the floor with a botany book on her lap, she pretended the quiet footsteps approaching her was the passing wind, although every window in the vicinity were closed shut. She murmured in rich hisses, closer to a pinched squeal than a serpent. The intruder reached towards her shoulder, ready to grip her and do untold things to her momentarily defenseless position.  
  
“Hi, Louie.” She propelled the book in his face, unintentionally pushing him backwards. Her finger pointed to page 185, "Though hemlock is one of the most poisonous plants in existence, someone utilized oleander's fatality's into an unmerciful curse!" Louie's silent horror remained so as she pressed the book to her chest, a dreamy expression swallowing her exuberant enthusiasm. He'd never understand her affection for most deadly, odd things.  
  
“Okay.” Louie said, “Shouldn’t you be hiding?”  
  
Webby tilted her head to the side, “Shouldn’t you?”  
  
“Hide and seek is for children.”  
  
“But we are -,”  
  
“And it was more for Huey than us anyways.” Walking to the far end of the room, a disinterested glance passed over the numerous books, maps, and paintings the room offered, “He’s searching for Dewey.”  
  
“Dewey is the easiest find.”  
  
Louie shrugged, “Huey’s going to check the kitchen first. He always does.” Stopping in front of a portrait, his scrupulous stare studied its contents before shrugging back o Webby, “And he’s probably hiding in the snack pantry, typical Dewey.”  
  
“It means we don’t have a lot of time left.” Webby returned the book to its shelving area, “And we’re in the same room. We’ve narrowed the game down to a few seconds.”  
  
Louie scoffed, “Hubert’s good, but he isn’t that good,” spreading his arms open, “there are like a million rooms down this hall alone. He’s going to get lost.”  
  
“Or Dewey’s going to get lost, and Huey has to find him.” Smiling back, she headed towards the door when she noticed an old Grandfather’s clock near the wall, “Oh, this is new.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“This clock?” Its smooth glass sent tingles up her spine while the gold pendulum swung slowly within. Infatuated, Webby tipped on her toes, peering to see its contents, “It’s an unusual Grandfather clock, that’s all.  
  
“He has a million of these,” which was true. Every other room contained a minimum of one Grandfather clock, some short, some tall, all made of an unidentifiable wood Huey had yet to discover in the JWG. He tipped toed to the large hand, pushing it up a little, and then he did the same to its shorter twin.  
  
“What are you doing,” Webby gasped.  
  
“Eh. Wanted to see what happens.” He looked out the window, “They’re near the pond,” he chuckled softly, “okay, Dewey may have tried hiding in the pond, the dork.” Walking away, he failed to notice Webby’s breathless expression, or the fact she had stepped several inches backwards, eyes growing wider with every step.  
  
“Louie!” She whispered - hissed, “Louie, what are you doing!?”

He didn’t look back, dragging a yawn he didn’t bother to cover up, “Going to the kitchen for a can of Pep. Haven’t had my peak Pep limit today.”  
  
“You can’t leave.” She hissed, “Not now.”  
  
“Eh, it’s not a big deal. I’ll get there before they get back. We’ll have another turn to hide.” Opening the door, he turned to grin, but felt his grin slip off his beak, replaced with wordless shock.  
  
“Now, you want to look!” Whitish blue light engulfed the room. The Grandfather Glock levitated off the floor, filling the room with a great, whoosh sound. Louie pressed his back against the door, shutting it tight.  
  
“What’s going on?”  
  
“You tell me!”  
  
Shielding his gaze with his arm, “This feels strangely familiar,” one foot in front of the other, he was at Webby’s side, “why does this feel familiar?”  
  
“I don’t know!” Webby pushed him out of the way the moment the Grandfather clock fell to the floor, landing in a perfect position with steam rolling off its wood.  
  
Silence. The light, its sounds, everything was emptied, leaving the private study in absolute silence. Louie crashed onto the floor with Webby on top of him, shielding him from whatever anticipated explosion, but they were left empty handed.  
  
“What was that?” Louie sat up, a little fringed but otherwise unharmed, “ _What was that_ ,” he gestured to the now quiet Grandfather clock - even its pendulum no longer swung, “Are Grandfather clocks supposed to do that?”  
  
“Normally, no.” Webby dusted her skirt off, studying the clock a bit harder than earlier, “You see,” she tapped the glass, “look at the pendulum.”  
  
“No.”  
  
Webby frowned, “Are you going to do this now?”  
  
“What’d ya’ mean?”  
  
“I mean,” she drawled, “if you hadn’t touched the hands, then none of this would’ve happened.” Glaring back at the glass, there’s something in the pendulum, I thought it was just crystal,” she scrutinized the gem cut rising in pendulum’s center, “but it seems to be something else.”  
  
“Oh, is it shiny?”  
  
“Well, yes, it’s a gem, naturally.” Webby answered, “But it seems to be cracked.”  
  
A thin, miniscule crack seeped into the gem’s blue-green-indigo mixed body. “It isn’t diamond,” Louie observed, “or gold.”  
  
“It’s a mineral of some kind? Chrysoberyl, perhaps?”  
  
“Oh, you mean Alexandrite.”  
  
“Right!” Webby snapped her fingers, “Alexandrite! This must be the legendary Clock of Chronos,” she paused, staring at Louie, “wait, who said that?”  
  
Louie’s and Webby’s shoulder stiffened. Their necks leaned backwards while their stares rolled to the ceiling where the third voice’s person came into view.  
  
Teal stared wide-eyed at them, “Oopsie.”  
  
Webby dodged. Louie didn’t.

* * *

Louie wasn’t dead. He wasn’t harmed. He wasn’t sure what happened, but knew, without a shadow of a doubt, he was far from safe.

“Um...Webby,” an arm securely wrapped itself around his neck. He tried to move, to create some distance, but slender, short arm was firm, “Webby, I’m not safe. I’m so very, very, very not safe.”  
  
“You’re not Donald.”  
  
He was thrown to the floor. Glaring ahead, he snapped back, “What’s your damage?”  
  
White blond curls fell over a shoulder, “Damage?” Kneeling down, inquisitive worry showed on her face, “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”  
  
“You could’ve!”  
  
A thick gasp pounded on her bouncy curls, “I’m sorry!” Grabbing the front of his hoodie, he was suddenly pulled on his feet, and she clasped his hands, bright eyes shining with unshed tears, “ _A young lady does not put strangers in chokeholds,_ Duckworth tells me, and what do I do, put a stranger in a chokehold!”  
  
“Especially in their house!” Louie jerked away, “Chokeholds in our house, what’s your damage?”  
  
She frowned, “I-I don’t understand.” Confusion graced over the bookcase, walls, paintings, and windows, “This is my house. I live here.”

“This is the manor of Scrooge McDuck,” Louie said. He scrutinized her, “Unless you’re some kind of ghost - are you a ghost?”

“No.”

“Well, unless you’re a ghost -,”

“Didn’t you say Duckworth,” Webby interjected.

“I did.”

They exchanged uneasy glances, “Oh.” Adjusting their positions, reflected on the painting positioned near the Grandfather clock, “Oh.”

Louie smacked his lips, “You’re the creepy girl in the painting.”

“Creepy-cute is less rude."

“Wait, so…,” the clogs in Webby’s brain worked faster than Louie’s. A shrill squeal freed itself as enveloped her arms around the girl, hugging her in a tight, unforgiving embrace, “Hi! I’m Webby!”

“Hi!” The girl's stare widened in shock, resuming its normalcy as she settled in Webby's embrace. Returning the hug with identical intensity, she giggled, “I’m Opal!”

“What?” Shaking his head, pulling them apart, “You need to tell me,” glaring at Webby, “what’s going on here?”

Webby bounced on her feet, fists clenched in poorly contained excitement, “Don’t tell me you don’t know,” gesturing madly to the girl, “it’s her! It’s her!”

“Who!?”

“Opal McDuck!” She sighed, “Scrooge’s daughter!”

A pause. “Wait.” Another pause, “Hold on.” Louie let the information sink into the depths of his knowledge, but even as it sat at the very bottom, it didn’t settle.

No. The information rocked unsteadily in his brain like a ship battling through a raging storm.

He repeated in dumb shock.

“Scrooge’s daughter,” he shook his head, “he has a kid!”

Louie's lips puckered in, absorbing the girl’s - _no_ , Opal’s very existence. His right eye twitched, and all the cogs in his usually fast working brain came to a screeching halt.

“Hi.” The girl waved sheepishly, "I'm Opal."

 


	2. Daughter of Smoke and  Gold and Other Mineral Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nobody puts Opal McDuck in the corner. Huey and Dewey learn this the hard way.

Boredom was an integral part of impending adolescence, Opal knew. It drenched the mind like rain pour drenched her feathers. A meticulous teacher, Duckworth took charge in circumventing his young mistress’ wayward attention - circling her interests back to their current studies. But even he - in his stuffy, English way, conceded there was no feasible way of permanently swaying her attention without removing her independence.  
  
Opal suspected he believed this was a natural consequence of her upbringing. It made sense. His unwavering loyalty to his master led to a number of misadventures, certainly one leading to the alteration of her middle name. If those innermost thoughts and opinions, those quiet misgivings ever took root within, Duckworth ensured they never saw the light of day.  
  
His concerns for her education were elevated when her unshakable comprehension of mathematics, literature, history, sciences, and other arithmetic proved to be far above the national level. He didn’t scoff or roll his eyes when their lessons diverted to spending an afternoon identifying the various forgotten and not yet discovered treasures of the world. His lessons were tedious, boring, and contained an engaging interest she wasn’t strong enough to deny.  
  
This was similar - watching Louie and Webby argue in one of her dad’s unused studies.  
  
“We need to find another Alexandrite!” Louie paced in circles, “If we we can find another Alexandrite, we can send her back.”

“And what are we going to tell Uncle Scrooge?” Webby pinched her glabella, “Tell him ‘Hey, can we borrow another gem we broke after bringing your daughter from the past. No rush’?”

“When you say it like that you make it sound way worse than it is.” Louie sighed, “Do we even known Scrooge has another Alex-Alex-ugh, whatever it is!”

“He does.”

Gaining their attention, a faint blush bubbled on her feathers, “If it’s still where it was in my time,” fiddling her fingers, she inhaled deeply, “then the additional Alexandrite gem cut should be in his bedroom.”

“His bedroom?” Louie and Webby silently questioned each other, “Are you positive?”

She shrugged, “From what you’ve told me a lot of time has passed, so there’s no way to be sure unless we look into his room. It’d have to be rotted, broken, useless, or the coupon expired for Daddy to throw it out.”

“Huh.”

“What’s wrong,” Webby asked Louie.

“Gotta get used to someone referring to him as Daddy.” Looking at Webby, “How didn’t we know?”

“I should’ve suspected when you didn’t ask during my Clan McDuck review session,” Webby admitted. She walked ahead, opening the door, “But if the gem is in there, we get out before Scrooge discovers it’s missing.”

Louie clapped his hand, “Great, awesome, good plan.” His grin raced to meet Opal, “Okay, all we have to do -,” stopping mid-sentence, his grin toppled, “she’s not here.”

“Wait, what?” Webby scanned the area, the suddenly two person area, and felt the lump in her throat grow,“Where’d she go?”

* * *

Opal tapped the wall near the bookcase, a very slim strip of wall, three times and disappeared down a secret passageway. The wall resumed its natural position. Knowing they were likely to find the gem sooner than she liked, leaving was the most viable option. There was some guilt at leaving them in the midst of their intense discussion; apparently, breaking the gem would get them into a lot of trouble.

Secret passages were littered in almost every other room of the mansion, though she occasionally made mistakes. She didn’t blame them for not knowing. Quietly stepping into the corridor, she tapped the wall in the same manner and with identical precision. It closed without making a sound.

“It’s 2017.” Her calculations ran quickly, “Twenty-seven years.” The number echoed brightly down the corridor, and her beak pulled into a tight grin.

“We’ve checked the foyer, our room, bathroom,” came a voice around the corner.

“They weren’t in the pond, or Scrooge’s other bin, not in Webby’s bedroom.” Another voice sighed, “Maybe hide and seek wasn’t the best idea for a game in a mansion with a million rooms.”

“In hindsight, hide and seek is another stealth game, and there’s Webby.” The first voice clucked impatiently, but suddenly brightened, “Don’t worry, we’ll find them.”

Opal debated. The variety of skills in her arsenal opened a basket of options. There was much she could do, but determining the sound of their voices plus her recent encounter, she decided offense wasn’t the correct route. But what to do? She jogged in place, humming softly, thinking rapidly, and she stuffed her hands into her skirt pockets.

She knew what to do.

Smoke was all they saw. They were going around the corner when smoke exploded all around them. Huey gasped, whatever scream ready to burst smothered under the haze. Dewey did scream - a brief, rattling scream dissolved in a coughing fit. Huey’s cry had him clamoring towards him, or as close as he could through the smoke. His obscured light made him dizzy, and reached for the figure standing in front him, believing it to be Huey.

“Huey?” Approaching the smoky figure, “Huey, man, this is crazy -,” a white blond ringlet fell over her shoulder.

* * *

“Dewey!” Using his shirt to cover his beak, Huey waved frantically through the smoke, racing towards Dewey’s scream. His lungs gasp on the other side, fisting his knees, gasping and coughing. His vision cleared.

“Huey!” Vision cleared, Louie’s forest green hoodie and Webby’s pink lace bow rushed at him, “Oh man, Huey, are you okay?”

Coughing, he heaved, “Yeah, I’m fine,” waving them off, “but Dewey -,”

“Where’s Dewey?”

Smoke heaved from his lungs, and facing the dissipating smoke, all signs of Dewey vanished.

“He was right behind me!” His coughs weakened, “And suddenly poof,” gesturing wildly, “what - what, we should call Uncle Donald, no, no,” calming breaths tightened his breaths, “no, Mrs. Beakley, but who could’ve done it? Ma Beagle? Glomgold?”

“No.” Webby admitted, “No, none of them.” She rubbed the edges of her vest uneasily, nudging Louie sharply in the side for him to move forward, “We have to tell him.”

“Seriously,” he whispered, “you want me to tell him?”

“You do know I’m standing right here.” Huey crossed his arms, “What did you do?”

Webby breathed through her nostrils. Her training didn’t prepare her for constant lies; each and every attempt ended in failure. Stepping forward, she hung her head low and said, “It started with the Clock of Chronos.”

* * *

 Dewey was dead, or that’s what he thought. He knew - knew he’d be the first to die. It seemed natural, if not ironic, but something he anticipated the second he discovered true, dangerous adventure.

And then he gasped.

His lungs lurched inward. An explosion of relief and pain burned as his body resumed its natural breathing practice. He rolled onto his side, coughing, spitting up a little, and gasped a second time, head raising to gaze at the stained glass window ahead.

A stream of multicolored light fell off the glass, pooling together at the feet of some person he did not know.

“I’m dead,” Dewey’s head rolled to the side. Dead. This was for certain. He was dead - what was he going to do? Was he going to drift in the mansion, a wandering spirit? Wait. That wasn’t right. Black Arts Beagle summoned Duckworth.

“You’re not dead,” said a voice.

“God?”

“What? No.” The voice reached for his sleeve, tugging him to stand, “Eshu and Anubis aren’t here,” she crossed her arms, a small pout pushed her beak forward, “and the Horned God and Black Dog haven’t been seen in centuries, but I think they’re vacationing in the Bermuda Triangle.”

“Wait, what?” She straightened shoulders. Dusted off his shirt. Clapped her hands with unusual excitement. And yet, having never seen this girl before in his life - she felt familiar, “Are you a ghost?”

“Me?” She laughed, “Oh no, I’m no ghost.” Her eyes widened, “But what jollification I’d have! Lacking a corporeal form means I can learn everyone’s dirty secrets,” she skipped down the hall, leaving Dewey in the corridor as if he was a passing dream.

He didn’t stay, despite his senses telling him to turn in search for Huey. He ran after her - the girl with the soft drop feet, running until his lungs flanked him in aggravation. “Wait, come on,” he whined, “wow, you’re really fast for someone who likes to prance.”

“Hm?” She merely side-glanced him, mind occupied with its original task. “You’re still here,” she smiled vacantly, like a clipped butterfly staggering about in confusion, “I suppose you can come to. You live here, don’t you?”

“Um...yeah, I live here.” Dewey’s brow furrowed. He managed to keep pace with her prancing steps, and though he was somewhat out of breath, his determination strengthened, “You _don’t_ live here.” She moved without distraction, not in a dream, not completely. She was aware of her surroundings, and Dewey realized as they made a right, then a left, then another right, one more right, and two lefts, that she knew where she was going too.

“I want to see Bolivar.” She stopped at the corner, ensuring no other people were to be seen, “But I’m not ready go back yet,” she counted her fingers, nodding in agreement of some phantom argument Dewey was ignorant of.

“Wait -,” he reached for her sleeve, fingers pricking the edges before she hurried the rest of the way, giggling softly. Dewey groaned. On an instinctive level, he knew there was something dangerous about her; an element shrouded in nefarious mystery. He didn’t stop when he should’ve.

“I wonder how big he’s gotten.” She wondered aloud, curls bouncing excitedly on her shoulders. Her gaze was bright and shining, filled with rich expectations, “Over twenty years! He was so small yesterday, or I suppose it’s twenty seven years ago,” another giggle freed itself, “either way, as long as I’ve taken good care of him, he should be fine.”

Her quick speech implied a subtle kind of efficiency unlike the type he’d grown accustomed. Webby was outward, forward, excitement causing her to stumble over her words. This girl - this turquoise eyed girl, wore herself delicately under a silky coat of feathers.

She was strange. That girl. Dewey didn’t know if this was a good thing.

“Who’s Bolivar?” The question was impossible to ignore. He searched her expression for any change, “Is he a dude, or a pickle -, “

“A pickle?” His question made her brow rose in curious surprise, but her expression contemplated, running the possibility over her mind until she affirmed, “He isn’t a pickle, silly. He’s my pet.”

“Your pet?”

“Yes,” she said. Confusion and discovery peppered her expression, causing her turquoise stare to glisten, and she spun around. Her petite hands gripped his. He felt the free blood circulation stagger and weaken. Dewey flinched at penetrative stare standing across from his, “Would you like to come with me?”

“Wait, seriously?” She didn’t appear to be lying. If she was, she was flawless in her execution, indicating zero nervousness or twitchiness, “Uncle Scrooge let you have a pet?”

“Exactly.” She rolled her head exaggeratedly. Little snaps were heard when she returned his steady gaze, “And who’ll have ta’ walk it, feed it, clean up its little doggie bits,” annoyance gnawed on her tone.

As Dewey giggled at her imitation, he came to a realization. Be it ghost, zombie, or some other abominable manifestation of the mansion, she was a girl - like Webby, a child - like him.

He was always game for an adventure in the mansion.

Mischief replaced confusion.

“Sure,” he grinned, “let’s meet Bolivar.”

* * *

Half an hour passed, and any existing signs of them were lost. After the smoke cleared and Huey’s lungs stopped wheezing, he listened to their explanations. Confusion. Denial. Absolute hilarity. Their story was impossible, unfeasible - time travel, laughter bubbled out of his beak. Their offended responses did little to sway him.

“It’s true!” Frustration clenched Webby’s fists, “The Clock of Chronos brought her forward in time. We need to find her before Uncle Scrooge finds out.”

“Okay.” Huey wiped tears from his eyes, “If what you’re saying is true, which it can’t possibly be, then Dewey is in safe hands.” He ignored their collective groans, “She’d never hurt him.”

Webby readied her response. Louie sidestepped her, easing his thoughtfulness into the argument effortlessly. “Child Opal is as bad as Webby,” his neck twitched at the memory of her thin, unyielding arm wringing itself around its fragile body. Louie’s fingers brushed his neck, “I saw my life flash before my eyes. No offense.”

She shrugged, “None taken.”

Their serious responses and expressions unnerved Huey. “Wait.” He shook his head, adamant on remaining a disbeliever, “You’re serious.”

“That’s what we’ve been telling you,” Louie said.

Huey grimaced, “She’s as bad as Webby? No offense.”

“None taken.”

“I don’t know. About the same.” Louie looked to Webby, “Where do you think she would’ve taken him?”

Attention on her, Webby’s brain picked at the possibilities. Opal claimed the gem was in Scrooge’s bedroom, but they lacked a plan to prevent discovery. Her lips smacked in thought, “Opal used to spend her time in the conservatory.”

An epiphany brightened her feathers, “That’s where she must’ve taken him.”

“But?”

They glanced at Louie.

“What?” Louie gestured at Webby, “There’s usually a _but_ for these kind of things.”

Webby curved her fingers around her beak in deep contemplation. “Granny says I’m never allowed to go into the conservatory.”

Louie squinted, “We have a what?”

“A greenhouse. It’s used to cultivate flowers and plants.” Huey explained with an ounce of annoyance. Her turned multiple theories over his head, and none of them were acceptable, “Mrs. Beakley didn’t explain to you why the conservatory was off limits? It isn’t very productive to deprive you of a reason.”

“I think she suspected had I known it’d encourage me.” A reasonable prediction, Webby admitted. Whatever her granny’s reasons, she knew they were sound, and there were other mysteries within the mansion she attached her interests on, “We can visit the conservatory and see if they’re there. If not, we’ll go straight to Scrooge’s bedroom and find the Alexandrite ourselves.”

“And not go to Beakley or Uncle Donald?” Huey suggested. When he received their blank yet obvious facial expressions, he knew he was outnumbered. His back hunched forward, “Fine. Let our third option remain ‘report to Beakley and Uncle Donald.’”

“Great!” Webby clapped, “Off to the conservatory we go!”

* * *

The two children stepped out into the sunny afternoon. Dewey whistled, temporarily forgetting the warm weather after spending more than half the day indoors. Opal giggled and led him to a white building in the backyard. Approaching the white figure, he saw plant life bustle inside - greens, greens, and more greens, tall and large, short and stocky.

“I didn’t know Uncle Scrooge was a gardener.”

“Oh. He isn’t.” She declared confidently, “Duckworth planted the majority of them. It’s his favorite past time. I was more than happy to help him. Our botany classes went swimmingly.”

“Class?” Dewey questioned, “Wait - who, are you?”

There was no time for her to answer. She gripped his wrist and pulled him in. Whatever immediate question teetered on Dewey’s tongue dissipated at the sight in front him.

All was gigantic. Trees and plants alike scaled the glass walls like antsy spiderwebs. He made a complete circle, absorbing Scrooge’s greenhouse gargantuan plant collection. His head was overwhelmed, spinning in spoty circles, and by time she took hold of his wrist, steadying him, he was far beyond dizzy.

“Careful now.” She led him along the far right, “Bolivar is shy, and we don’t want to surprise him.”

Several minutes passed. He tried to squeeze through her palm, but she was stronger, and far more resolved than he originally thought, “A strange place to keep a dog.”

“Hm.” She replied absentmindedly, attention rotating around her task. She twisted her head side to side, eyes squinting in flashing memory. About an hour and a half she was in her home in the present, wherever it was, and suddenly, she was thrusted into the future. Confusion was expected.

Her quick steps slacked, “I don’t understand. He should be here.” They reached a mid-section area, Dewey supposed, of the conservatory. Gazing down at an empty patch where a plan, her bright, animated features dwindled, revealing steadily descending heartbreak.

“I took very good care of him.” Her gaze trembled back at Dewey. She started to pace, training her gaze on the empty patch where her beloved Bolivar originally stood, “I watered him. I fed him. He loved fresh goat.”

“Wait.” He raised his hands, “Bolivar isn’t a dog, is he?”

“No.” She twisted her skirt, picking at the intricate thread lining, “No, he isn’t. I never said he was a dog. Why’d you think he was a dog?”

“Dog. Cat. Pig. I dunno.” Dewey slapped his forehead, “I thought he was an animal.”

“He’s my darling _darlingtonia californica_.” She stomped her foot angrily and dug into one of her skirt pockets. Her bereft tears were supplanted by annoyance, then anger, “I can’t believe him! He promised!”

“Who?”

She glared, “Daddy!” Crossing her arms, she paced around him, “He said if I took care of it, which I’m sure I did in the future, then I’d be allowed to keep him. He said no one could grow a cobra lily in the city, and I told him I was going to!”

“A cobra lily?” He mourned Huey’s absence. An explanation would be useful, but his limited knowledge didn’t stunt his vocabulary, “So it’s like a plant?”

“Oh! Oh...this boils me! Ugh!” She threw her hands in the air, “He’d do it. He’d do it for her. He always did.” What was it that passed over her eyes? A thick, rich glaze darkened her turquoise, narrowing them into slits, and she crossed her arms behind her back, lurching forward as anger swept through her chest.

“Her who?”

Her curls swirled at him. Her fists pinched into her sides, and if it were possible, her nostrils would’ve flared as she bit out a single name, “Della.”

It was a different sensation than being struck in the stomach or having water thrown into your face. Air was teased from his lungs, stuffing him with suffocating tightness.

“I’d seen a photo of you.” Uncle Donald said she smell of flowers and dog fur. He stared at the girl - really stared at her for what felt like the first time. Her white-blond curls, ruminating turquoise eyes, and her shy smile. Dewey inhaled sharply, sucking through his teeth.

“Opal,” he murmured. He met her suddenly too bright, too shining eyes, and for a quiet moment, her anger receded, head tilting to the side. His stomach bubbled uncomfortably, twisting in knots the same way she fisted her skirt, “Opal, how did you get here?”

“Oh.” She blinked. As if she realized something terrible had taken root within him, she covered his hands with her own, spreading a smile in comfort, “We were going to look for the Alexandrite in Daddy’s bedroom, but I wanted to see what Bolivar looked like. I’m sorry for hurting you.”

“You didn’t hurt me,” pink rose to his cheeks in offense.

“You look upset.”

He wanted answers. He wanted to ask questions, so many popped from underneath the surface, but Dewey knew this was not the time. She was not of his time. Not this Opal.

“Scrooge may have moved it.” Dewey turned his hand on its back, gripping her in return, “Bolivar, I mean. If he was big enough to fit that,” pointing to patch of soil where the plant was previously planted, “Scrooge might’ve moved him elsewhere.”

She wiped her eyes, “You think?”

“Where else could he put a dog sized plant?” Dewey laughed.

* * *

Vines of various sizes created freeways across the floors. Their bulbous shapes were reminiscent of a General Sherman root splitting free. Soil and fertilizer sprinkled at their feet. Huey, Louie, and Webby breathed a sigh of relief, as abnormal as the conservatory was there was some semblance of normalcy.

Concern rolled onto Louie’s face, “This looks more like a jungle than a greenhouse.” Crossing over a vine, grimacing at its unnatural girth, “Seriously, there’s no way we’re going to find them in this place!”

“Calm down.” Webby cautioned. Admitting their mission’s difficulty frustrated her to no end. With sunlight beaming through on them, lighting should’ve been efficient. Green shadows accumulated together, blocking most of the light.

“We’re going to stick together.” Huey walked to one of the plants. Without referring to his JWG, he examined the flower’s miniature bell shaped petal, silky soft at the touch, “These are lily of the valleys.” He glanced at their deep violet neighbors, “And these are wolf’s bane, and these are oleanders.” With every identified flower, his voice reached a new pitch.

“Okay!” Louie snapped, glaring at his eldest brother, “The flowers are pretty, can we go now?”

“Yes, they’re very pretty.” Huey spread his arms for dramatic effect, “But they’re all extremely poisonous. The oleanders, wolf’s bane, hemlock,” he gasped feebly, “seriously, hemlock? Why does she have hemlock?”

Webby shrugged, “Most of this stuff was planted when Duckworth was still alive.” Orange lilies, borage, and blue roses bloomed in her memory, “She lived in the manor when she planted these.”

“But why?”

“I can’t say.” Webby answered, “This must be the reason Granny wanted me to stay away from the conservatory.”

“Is anyone planning to eat anything in here?” Huey and Webby shook their heads. Louie exhaled a relieved breath and moved forward.

Their searched descended towards the conservatory’s heart. The plants grew thicker, larger, and wilder. Louie complained about vines snaking around his ankle. He ripped them free every time. Huey dabbed at his nostrils. His allergies were starting to tickle. Webby was unfazed, observant, and quiet. Callin their names required. Their voices echoed meekly, getting caught and strangled in trees and tall plants.

“This is useless!” Louie threw his hands in the air, “They can be anywhere, and if we’re speaking realistically, Dewey has probably accidentally swallowed some toxious plant! Lets call Beakley or Duckworth!”

Huey snorted, crossing his arms. Annoyance drew tightly around his beak’s corners, “Dewey knows not to put any strange items in his mouth after the donut incident, and this is a conservatory, what can possibly go wrong?”

Louie glared tiredly at his brother’s smug expression. It did them no favors. He turned on his heel in the opposite direction, more than ready to leave them behind when his peripheral vision caught sight of a shadow scurrying across the window.

“Ack!” He screamed. He flailed back into one of the shelves, knocking a batch of potted pale violet orchids to the floor. Its powerful crash and subsequent splitting were lost to Louie. He pointed shakily to the window where the massive shadow receded into sunlight.

“Louie!” Huey and Webby ran to him. His speech stumbled over their exclamations, jumbling whatever explanation he had planned for them. Webby blinked at where the potted flowers split in perfect halves. While Huey comforted Louie, she crouched to the potted flowers’ remains. Gingerly, she pushed the split halves aside.

“Huey, Louie.” She whispered tightly. Louie was lost in Huey’s arms to think of anything else. Huey nodded mutely that sufficed as confirmation that she had someone’s attention. “Look here,” she pointed to the center of the former plant, “do you see it?”

Huey studied the location she pointed to. “What’s that little green bean,” he asked while shushing Louie’s weak cries, “should it be in there?”

“I don’t think so.” Webby paused. She searched the vicinity for something to use, and exclaimed softly when she noticed a miniature garden rake under the shelf. With it in hand, she pushed the surrounding soil away until the green bean revealed itself to be more.

“Whoa.” She stopped her pushing, leaving a ghost of a gasp on her lips, “Like, wow, wow.”

“What is it?” Huey asked, releasing Louie and peering over her shoulder, “It’s a vine, Webby.”

“No.” She replied with unexplained firmness, “It isn’t just a vine.” She set the rake above the vine and tapped the vine’s skin gently.

“It isn’t do anything,” Louie wiped his eyes.

Huey raised his hand, “No, it is! Look!” Below them vibrations ran through the vine’s leathery hide. It seemed to want to grow but was stunted. Sharply aware of her proximity to the vine, Webby scooted back, smacking into Huey’s leg and Louie’s arm as the latter helped her up.

“Should we try to catch it?”

“What?” Louie cried, “Absolutely not!”

“I don’t think we have a choice.” Webby said, “It isn’t going to give us one.” The boys witnessed her statement’s accuracy. The vine suddenly flattened. Close to the floor it rested on, slinking to the edge of the wall, and they watched with caught breaths as the vine raised three inches off the floor and waved.

Immediately the leafy, flattened vine zipped out of sight along the edge of the wall.

Three children stared in unsettled silence.

“I’m still sane aren’t I?”

“Inhaling should be fine,” Huey insisted.

“Be quiet,” Webby hissed in an uncharacteristically harsh tone. Still on the floor, skirt dirtied and chest panting, she lined the wall where the vine fled along. Her nostrils flared. An uncomfortable rumble crossed her stomach as she stood, ignoring the bits of dirt on her skirt, she turned to her friends.

“We need to find Dewey.”

Huey and Louie nodded stiffly. Their unanimous decision was a small consolation. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An awesome friend drew amazing artwork of Opal!  
> [Happy Demon Hound](https://78.media.tumblr.com/78b1f766b09dbf811316d9315277d45b/tumblr_pf68a7ED5V1snvgvpo1_1280.png) by  
> [ koizumi-marichan](http://koizumi-marichan.tumblr.com/)  
> 


	3. Just Like Marie Antoinette!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A father and son reunite. Duckworth is not amused.

“It isn’t far now,” she told him for the seventh time. Seven times for seven minutes. Blood pumped throughout his hand, proving good circulation. She hadn’t released him since they resumed their path, and in a few moments, they were going to meet Bolivar.

Dewey wondered aloud. “What does it do?”

“Hm.” Opal mused thoughtfully, searching for the right words to bestow upon her pet, “He loves to eat. I feed him four times a day. He has a breakfast, a lunch, a dinner, and a supper.”

“Aren’t dinner and supper the same thing?” He was 99% positive they were. Opal shrugged, maybe they were, but they were all relative.

She fed him four times a day. “We usually keep the sunroof open for him, in case a snack falls in,” she smiled at Dewey’s obvious bewilderment, “don’t worry, we don’t throw them in.”

“Okay.” He didn’t believe she was intentionally cryptic. Having been raised by Scrooge McDuck and in his home must’ve made her far different from regular children, and when she wasn’t putting him in chokeholds, she was very nice.

A thought had snagged at his teeth. He thought, maybe, possibly, considering their circumstances he may have ignored it, but time spent in her presence weakened his self-restraint.

He coughed into his hand, choosing to look anywhere except for her face. “Opal, you mentioned my mom -,” quickly sputtering, scoffing his error from her hearing, “I mean, a girl, a girl named Della?”

Opal faced him. “Oh yes, Della,” she smiled, “she’s my younger cousin. We’re only a few months apart, she, Donald, and I.”

“Donald?” He prayed his voice didn’t crack, “Um...so...you said something about Della few moments ago -,”

“Oh?” Her tone flattened, brow sitting in a straight line above her eyes, “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“It isn’t anything like that.” She licked her palate thoughtfully, trying her best to answer his question with tactful truth. Della and I are, well, different. Donald gets locked in the pantry, and I run to free him. It’s actually a prank Della set for both of us, so we’re locked in together until I find a way into the air vents.”

“She locked you in the pantry?”

Opal nodded, “She did, and to be fair, it was a lot of fun going through the vents…,” a deep giggle escaped merrily, “even when a mouse started nibbling on Donald’s toes.”

“Yeesh.”

“Yeah.” Calming down, her enthusiastic gaze watered contemplation, and she breathed, teasing the words out between her teeth, “We landed in Daddy’s study. That’s where she was, reading topographic maps of Plain Awful.”

Her cadence was as gentle and dream-like as the rest of her. Dewey knew he hadn’t heard any difference. His knowing didn’t stop him from blinking in her direction, examining her forward expression. He sensed her end remarks were tipped in pain. What kind of pain? He wasn’t sure.

“Was it like that often?”

“Hm.” He lost her interest. Her head turn to the left, and she smiled, “You see that door?” An accumulation and twig like vines, shriveled from a lack of water, covered a brown door in a thick blanket, “That’s where Duckworth worked. I work alongside him.”

“You do?” Funny. The ghostly apparition now haunting their home never seemed to work except for dusting and criticizing Mrs. Beakley’s meals, “Isn’t he busy helping Uncle - I mean, Scrooge?”

“He takes his position seriously.” Opal explained. It was difficult to tell what lied behind her gaze sometimes. So quiet, yet so loud. Mysterious and at the same time, open, “It’s his job to keep me occupied when Daddy is working,” she frowned, “they think I don’t know that.”

A growing horde of questions rested inside. He didn’t get the chance to ask any of them. Opal opened the door, pulling dried vines to the floor. She motioned for him to follow, and he did.

Duckworth’s personal room was the size of an average study in the mansion. There was a great, wide metal table curving along the wall. Like most of the conservatory, the room was covered in plant life. Vines tread upon the windows, walls, even the wide metal table wasn’t safe.

Releasing his hand, she skipped to the table, grabbing a nearby stool. “Supervised visits only.” Grinning at the cluttered desk, she picked at stained, aged papers, “He isn’t entirely serious. How else am I going to learn when he isn’t around?”

Dewey tippy toed to peer over the table. “Is his work area usually this...you know, dirty?” Dewey tippy toed to peer over the table. Along with papers there was dust and sprinkled leaves, some weathered and crumbled, others fresh and new, covering the desk, “I didn’t imagine he could be so messy.”

“Twenty-years have gone by.” She smoothed a leather bound journal and sighed sweetly. Opening it, she mulled over blurry pages - also a victim of unkempt time, “Hm...Duckworth seems to have been busy.”

“Busy?” He hopped lightly at her side, “Come on. I wanna see.”

Opal showed him the journal. He sped read through most of it, attention seeking unusual, ominous phrases. “Woof, can you understand this stuff,” turning the journal over, “it’s like it’s in another language.”

“It isn’t. Trust me.” With a laugh she stepped down and flipped to the tenth page, “His script is ridiculously fancy, and I should know. Check the middle of the page.”

Dewey read the specified passage, “Cruth Olaander?” His blank expression silently pled, and she burst into a fit of giggles, not attempting to cover her mouth.

“Oleander of torment,” she read in an entranced whisper. His expression remained the same. Snatching the journal away, she snapped it shut with a sigh, “Duckworth knows of Daddy’s magic hatred.”

“He hates magic?”

She nodded, “He thinks it’s a supernatural get quick rich scheme.” She set the journal aside and hopped off of the stool, eyeing the walls in search of an exit, “He isn’t entirely wrong. So many have used magical means to reach new found glory, but it’s about perspective. Think of what you can accomplish with magic and science, eh?

“Sounds neat.”

“Neat doesn’t begin to cover it.” She took his silence of confusion. A partial truth. He simply didn’t understand, and she accepted this was the most appropriate treatment for someone like him. She opened her arms, spreading them as far as they could go, “Mankind’s ingenuity will reach far above the moon and stars if we could find a way to combine science and modern science.”

“So you mean having science helps magic?”

She lowered her arms, “I think of it as collaboration.”

Dewey’s patient question was trampled under a quick stirring outside the door they entered from. Uncle Donald’s extended hose came to mind. He reeled it in with unusual expertise, right before the end slapped him in the face. Whatever this stirring was - more of a zip than a stir, its impending entrance made him anxious.

Gripping her shoulder, she pushed him aside with familiar carelessness, “A tendril? A root? A vine? No.”  She listened. She waited. Whatever the thick mass was finally revealed itself. Slowing down, they watched in stunned speechlessness as the twisted, mangled, varicose veined vine slither along the wall. It traveled lazily, disgruntled for one reason or another, and disappeared behind the second door.

“What was that,” she asked.

“Looked like a tree to me?” He walked ahead, stopping midway to send her a wary glance, “Are you coming?”

“Hm.” She paused in thought, “Such a large thing,” murmuring softly she followed his steps. “Bolivar could be in there,” she whispered.

“What is this place?”

Opal shrugged, “This is where the larger plants are kept.” They walked into the darkness. Greenery concealed every inch of visible glass, masking the usually illuminated room in shadow.

They moved forward. A switch was pressed underfoot. Dewey stared down at the poorly placed lightswitch near the wall’s side and watched Duckworth’s inner sanctum come to life in bright, blinding artificial light.

His arm shielded painful blindness. Her hand gripped his wrist, pulling him behind her. His gasp tightened. He lowered his arm and confusion blinked at her.

“Uh…,” she said.

“Opal?”

“Uh…”

He tapped her shoulder. He waved his hand in front her face. Her  _ uhhh _ continued, stretched in a high, squeaky pitch. Worry fluttered on his brow.

“What is wrong with you?”

An emptiness unlike any other - no, this wasn’t emptiness. Emptiness spiraled endlessly within a pupil’s core. The untrained eye was capable of detecting emptiness. What lied in her pupils wasn’t emptiness. Vibrating, expanding, and constant movement grew within her pupil’s reflection. Oh. He gulped.  _ Oh. _ Opal nodded.

“How bad is it?” He was afraid to turn around. He was excited to turn around, to see, to gape in horror and terror.

A wavelet split Opal’s silent shock in half.  “Holly hollyhock,” wonderment whipped her murmur, broadening her trembling grin. Dewey refused to close his eyes, savoring his terror, and twisted his vision to her direction.

His stomach rumbled. He might’ve fainted, but his new situation grounded him, forcing him to remain conscious. If he were to faint, he’d be dead. He had no intention of dying today.

“Is that Bolivar,” he swallowed.

Opal’s grin transformed into a genuine smile, removed from surprise and frolicking in parental pride and joy. She was entranced, overwhelmed with a joy none could describe, and moved forward despite Dewey’s whispered pleas. Hands clasped to her chest, she murmured her quiet response that seemed to echo under the slippery screeches of her beloved, ten foot tall pitcher.

“Dearest Bolivar.” She hummed, “Look at how big you’ve grown.”

* * *

 

Knees tucked under his chin, Louie’s heart drummed against its rib cage, threatening to burst through cartilage, bone, muscle, and feathers. Small was safe. Small was quiet. But it wasn’t quiet - not really. Sound circled them, watching their every move, no matter how minimal. Leaves rustled impatiently. Vines slithered in every direction. Cool, tranquil, and threatening darkness subsided under light’s unforgiving flare.

Webby crouched next to him. She breathed calmly. Louie envied her for that. Huey was gone. In the quietness - not absolute quietness, Louie tried to forge the events leading to his brother’s sudden disappearance. They were walking, and a vine - yes, a vine, grabbed his ankle and smothered his scream before dragging him down, far from their reaching hands.

Naturally, they chased after it, and accomplished hurdles to seek some flimsy form of safety.

“What are we going to do,” he gasped. He stared from one end to the other, the plant’s unreasonable girth obscuring the entrance, “We can’t get out! And I’m sure Huey’s been eaten!”

His chest hurt. It always hurt when adventures went south. Huey mentioned the combination of anxiety and adrenaline caused chest pains. He wasn’t sure if he believed him. Too tiny, he thought. Too small, he thought. Don’t wanna get eaten, he thought.

“No.” Webby hushed him, and she gripped his shoulders, forcing him to look at her, “He hasn’t been eaten.” Roaming vines and exposed roots clamored on the floor, spread far apart, searching for its next meal, “I think it’s waiting for its next dinner.”

“So where’s Huey?”

“I don’t know.” She frowned, “If it had taken Huey, he’d be at the bottom of the plant, but there’s nothing there.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean.” Trying her hardest not to sound annoyed, “I mean despite its abnormally increased size the acidic properties would not have an effect on a person, or it shouldn’t. It normally eats insects, small mammals, and the like -,”

“Have you seen the thing?” He snapped. He glanced at the pant’s black and shivered, “It probably can eat a person at this size!”

“It’s impossible to measure its digestion time without proper research, but we would’ve heard Huey in there.” Her thumb dug into his shoulder’s crooks, “This means he’s still in here somewhere. We just need to find him and get out of here alive to find Dewey and Opal.”

“Wow! He’s huge! What have you been feeding him?”

Louie dropped flatly, “Are you kidding me?”

“I normally feed him insects and a healthy dose of water.” She answered proudly, “We’ve recently modified his diet with pigs ready for slaughter and aged sheep. He seems to like the taste.”

“For the love of -,” Webby slapped her forehead. She scanned the wall behind Louie and hissed, “To your right there are a pair of shears, I’ll get them while you get Dewey and Opal.”

“You want me to go back out there!”

“Yes.” His sputtered reply didn’t keep her near. She was on the move. Creeping over vines and leaves, over small corpses trapped in vines and leaves, she watched shears in the distance. Rust dotted the blades. They appeared to be in working order; barely sharp enough to cut through thinner weeds. It’d have to do.

Tendrils closed in at her feet. She hopped and scurried, never misstepping. Misstep and well, maybe not die, she wasn’t positive, but death was imminent in a way like most of their misadventures. The shears’ slippery body creaked painfully. Dulled metal made Webby a dull girl.

But not senseless.

“Webby!”

She didn’t have eyes behind her head. Sidestepping was worse than a misstep when miscalculated, and she rarely did. She barrel rolled over thin, exposed roots, gripping the shears in hand. Above her a tendril, larger, stronger than those frail roots swiveled about, searching for an opening but blind to many. It seeks movement? Body heat? Annoyance drew quickly in. The tendril paused, seemingly finding the right spot, and dove in without further hesitation. Webby gasped, jumped to the side, and watched with wide eyes as the earthly tendril struck into the concrete below, crumbling it.

“You’re alive!” She heard Louie gasp, “You’re alive! You idiots!”

“What’s going on?”

“What is she doing to my Bolivar?”

“You’re Bolivar!”

Dewey shrugged, “It’s her pet.”

“A pet!?” Louie hissed, “A pet is a fish or a cat or a dog, not a man-eating plant!”

“He doesn’t eat people!” Opal pushed them aside, “And what is she doing?”

Extracting itself from concrete and dried soil, the tendril shot forward, and Webby dodged. But this time was different. Webby was balanced. A second to catch her breath, a second to define her scheme, the shears sliced through leaf and green and green ooze splattered onto the floor as the tendril vibrated helplessly on the floor.

“Alright!”

“Awesome Webby!”

“No.”

Adrenaline pumped madly through her veins. Her cheeks were flushed, muscles tripped happily throughout her body, and a part of her anticipated the onslaught. Her research was extensive. So when Opal’s dainty, soft, tender fist met her ribs, she hissed. She fell on one knee, clutching her ribs. An unusual pain, cold and numbing sliced through her side.

“No.” Earth’s fury boiled her gaze. Each knuckled popped, a , “No, don’t you lay another metal on my Bolivar.”

“What’s she doing?” Louie gripped Dewey’s arm, shaking it wildly, “What’s she doing!? Tell me,  _ what _ is  _ she _ doing?”

“I dunno. Opal, you okay?”

A second fist came, and better prepared, Webby dodged. Webby had grown familiar with killer intent. This wasn’t killing intent. Her strikes were meant to stun, to disarm. _You will not hurt him,_ her fists said, but the first touch was her last. Webby preferred use of her limbs.

“Have you lost your mind?” Webby’s wrist blocked a second, then a third blow - so many in quick succession. Whoever trained her, trained her well, “Bolivar ate Huey!”

“Do you have a body?” A fifth, a sixth. She thought a roundhouse kick would do the trick, “I see no body, and so, we cannot assume the worst just yet...not yet.”

Louie’s erratic hand movements caught Dewey’s attention. “We don’t know!” He swiped his cheeks in aggravated fear, “One of those things dragged him away.”

“What!?”

“It’s what I’ve been saying!”

“Augh!” Strain and anger called to them. Webby shoved Opal to the floor, blasting blow after blow on her crossed wrists. Neither girl was ready to give up, or give in.

“We need to stop them.” He ran ahead. Louie whined, debating what the smartest decision was. A booming voice hazarded to run away and seek safety. Its quieter twin offered an alternative. Louie grimaced. Its twin repeated itself. Louie stomped his feet. Its twin screamed at him. He ran.

Dewey on the left. Louie on the right. They pulled Webby’s shoulders until she fell back. Opal shot right back, ready to return the attack, and Dewey mushed between them. 

“Not the time guys!”

“He could’ve eaten Huey!”

“But she hurt Bolivar!”

“Not the time,” they shouted.

The walls rattled. Slowly, four heads followed the vibrations. Their horror stunted their speech, silenced their screams, and they raised their heads at the lengthening plant. Roots, vines, all of various sizes and shapes were woven together, returning to the center where its host stood.

Louie sucked in a sharp breath. Dewey’s mouth was agape. Webby and Opal sighed, unable to mask their embarrassment underneath their terror.

“Truce,” Webby offered.

“Truce,” Opal replied.

It’s body twined and racketed. Vines melded together. Roots conversed below concrete and soil. Huddling together, the four children grasped each other’s bodies for false comfort and bravery.

“It shouldn’t be able to do that.” Opal whispered. Bolivar’s bud blossomed, which it shouldn’t possess as a consequence to its species. This day was determined to prove natural expectations incorrect. A canary yellow flower bloomed at its center. Blackish brown rounded the inner edges, and in the middle - as they fearfully predicted, was a saw house of teeth.

Clean, ivory white, and razor sharp teeth curled forward at an alarming speed. Too fast for them to move.

Death. This was death. Painful death. There wasn’t time to say it.

In the midst of his screaming, Louie peaked open his right eye. A second before his painful demise, he realized the room was brighter than it was several moments ago, and he understood why. All the vines and other earthly, green blockers slithered to Bolivar, becoming one with it. Their absence permitted natural sunlight to shine through, and permitted for Louie to see.

A shadow was seen at the edge of the dome shaped ceiling. It stood on the grass, watching their unfortunately gruesome demise below. Although sunlight revealed every item surrounding them, even the pale brown freckles on Bolivar’s canary yellow petals, this form remained carefully indiscernible. A deliberate shadow if Louie was correct, or that’s what he thought at the time. Thinking was over.

He closed his eyes, ill prepared to die, wanting to live. Dewey’s forehead bopped his, maybe an apology, or maybe a silent chastise for his adventurous spirit. Who knows? He was going to die.

And then, he didn’t.

Ceiling glass fell to the floor. A lot of it, actually. So much that they opened their eyes and watched as the ceiling rained glass. Shock jerked their attention upwards to where glass fell. The shadow leaped into the room.

“Onward, Bolivar!”

“Wait, is that -,” Dewey started. Something jerked their collars to the door. They were dragged away, unable to explained their dragging. Whatever it was had done its work expertly. Bolivar the Small made a sound. It’s shadowy, inky form grumbled it out, and they watched as visual vibrations exited its mouth. A curved, half formed dome struck the yellow head, slicing it completely off.

Its bud and petals fell. A slight tremble traveled under their bottoms, right to where they ceased to move. The debris was a distant, far away dream, and its remains were scattered nightmares. Vines peeled off like flaky wallpaper. Strip by strip until the plant’s original form greeted them.

“We’re not dead.” Louie clutched his chest. His brothers noted the sharp rise and descent of his ball fisted grip, greedly swallowing a fistful of hoodie, “We’re alive. We’re not dead. How are we not dead?”

“I don’t know,” Opal answered.

Dewey rolled his head. He was still dizzy. Seeds dropped off shirt, causing a brief rainfall between his legs. “There has to be a reason,” he rubbed the back of his head, sending the plant a weak hearted glare.

Opal whispered, “I think I found it.”

“What do you mean?” Dewey asked. His vision started to clear. At his feet he saw the whispery, opaque fog he had grown used to in the past month and a half. Duckworth’s mist moved to the shadow’s feet, which was no longer a shadow. There were feet - no, four paws attached to four legs, attached to a massive, sturdy body with an oversized head and long, uncut tail.

A familiar head appeared from behind the dog’s enormous head.

"Ah, just like Marie Antoinette." Huey faced them, grinning widely, "Hi, guys!"

“Huey!” Louie and Dewey cried, forcing their exhausted muscles forward. They ran to their brother, who was mindful enough to hop off the dog’s giant back, and they wrapped each other in a forgivably tight embrace.

“Where were you,” Dewey asked.

“We thought you were eaten,” Louie cried.

Webby jumped, “Bolivar!” She raced to the dog with open arms, wrapping them as far as they could go around its girthy neck, “Where have you been? Granny said she was going to send you to the groomer.”

Duckworth watched this with a satisfied if exhausted gaze, and tipped his chin to Opal standing awkwardly to the side, “No fear, Miss Vanderquack. Bolivar has already been properly groomed, no thanks to your grandmother.”

“Hello, Duckworth,” Opal rubbed her arm sheepishly.

“Young Miss.” His solemn nod made her wince.

She looked at her feet. She had not acted as modestly as either of them had hoped, and though she tried not to, her bottom lip trembled and her eyes burned.

Duckworth sighed. He went down on one knee, resting a ghostly hand on her shoulder. “Now, now, what is all of this fuss,” cupping a finger beneath her beak, he raised her stare to meet his, “it appears you have strayed from your designated time period.”

“I didn’t mean to.” She sniffed. She twisted her dress tightly, “I wanted to protect Bolivar.” She looked at the hugging children, “I knew he hadn’t eaten Huey. He doesn’t like fresh meat.”

“He could have, my dear.” Duckworth warned, “Alas, this appears to be the usual in this house. Fortunately, this Bolivar was on patrol.”

“This Bolivar?”

“Yes.”

“So this was the shadow that was following us,” Louie patted Bolivar’s side.

“Yep!” Huey grinned, “When I was captured, he came out of nowhere and saved me!” He cooed into his sweet smelling fur, “Yes you did, boy. Who’s a good boy?”

“He’s a good boy!” Dewey marveled at his fur, “When did Scrooge get a dog?”

Webby shrugged, “He’s been in the family for a number of years.”

“So why haven’t we seen him until now?”

“Oh Bolivar comes and goes as he pleases.” Webby explained, “Granny feeds him. Bathes him. All that. But I can’t tell you where he’s been or where he’s going.”

Bolivar stood in the center of the four children. He accepted their attention with heavy pants. His droopy-eyed stare took note of their tattered clothes and bruised arms. Other than those minor injuries, they appeared unharmed. His head moved to where Duckworth’s unearthly, blue glow projected, and he noticed the fifth child standing nearby.

His black nose sniffed twice. He moved ahead, taking care not to knock any of the fourth children down by his surprise movement. Opal stood, still frowning, and took step back when the door leered its heavy head above her.

“Um…”

“Now, Young Miss,” Duckworth chided, “don’t be rude.”

She stared back at the dog, and waved, “Hello, Bolivar...Junior? Yes, Bolivar Junior. We can’t have two Bolivars, can we?”

Bolivar Jr. barked twice, and suddenly, his long, thick pink tongue licked her cheek. Her toes were an inch off the ground, and she stumbled back down, holding her sticky wet cheek.

“Oh.” She smiled at Duckworth, “I like him!”

Bolivar Jr. tilted his uncooked ham sized head to the side, as if questioning what his nose had previously confirmed. Duckworth’s stiff nod reassured him. He moved his head under her beak, rubbing her chest gratefully. Soft whines blubbered onto her feathers, causing her polite laughter to transform into fitful giggles.

“He appears fond of you, Young Miss.”

Opal cuddled the dog’s head the best she knew how. Her tiny hands wrung around his massive neck rather than his head, but Bolivar didn’t seem to mind. She pressed her cheek against his warm, sweetly scented - she detected oatmeal, fur and curiously gazed at Duckworth. Her manic observation brokered a grin wider than the morning sun, “You’re dead aren’t you, Duckworth?”

“Yes, Miss Opal,” came his dry reply.

An unnatural, shrieking pitch rang in their ears. She didn’t seem to notice their pained eardrums, nor did she care in her moment of morbid fascination, “An inevitability, really, considering everything you’ve faced, and don’t get me wrong, it’s very sad you’re dead today, but you’re a fully formed apparition!”

Groans of exasperation and impatience answered her.

“What?” She matched their exasperation with irritated confusion, “You successfully pulled us away from harm, indicating you possess stage three haunting capabilities! Are you able to hurt people at will? Alter your appearance? Create light orbs and cold spots? How solid are you, don’t be afraid, no answer is a wrong answer in your unusually specific case.”

If not for the slow ghost of a smile on his muzzle, the children would’ve thought he was offended, “As informative as it would be for a lesson, I don’t believe time is in our favor, Miss Opal.”

“That’s a shame. Are there multiple afterlives?”

His droll smile cracked. Underneath revealed a genuine smile, and a dry chuckle untangled itself from between his teeth, “I can say with much certainty, there are multiple destinations in the after life, far more than we were ever led to believe.”

“I can’t wait to tell Granddaddy and Grandmummy next time we visit them!” She grinned, “Another question -,”

Duckworth raised his hand. She silenced quickly, and her beak puckered into a frown, “Oh, Duckwroth.”

“Miss Opal, I cannot begin to tell you how gratifying this meeting has been, but there are tasks to complete.” He shifted his dry stare onto the waiting children on the side, “And you don’t want Mr. McDuck to discover this...excursion, do you?

The children’s four gazes shook as if they were locked in a canned pickle jar. Duckworth’s audible sniff said all that needed to be said. He lowered his lithe form to the dog’s ear, and whispered a command none were able to hear.

Bolivar huffed, but obeyed. He stepped back, away from glass shards, to sit on his rear end. They watched with growing interest at the dog’s hind leg reaching below the head and above the neck to scratch eagerly at that middle section. Fur flurried around, falling in thick chunks. The children waited for Duckworth to say something. His dislike of messes was well known. He remained standing, patient like a marble statue.

“We don’t have all day, Bolivar.” Duckworth drawled, “Master McDuck will be returning shortly, and we do not have time to explain this,” he gestured to Opal.

Bolivar’s sapphire glazed eyes rolled back to his skull. His claws dug deeper through the mountains of fur. A long, whined groan rumbled from his muzzle, and the children peered closely, waiting for whatever Duckworth had commanded him to do.

Under his folds, something shiny winked at them.

“Wait.” Louie recognized the cut, the tint, “That can’t be it.”

“Can’t be what,” Dewey asked.

Louie was going to answer when the jewel popped free. It flew through the air, landing into his unknowing palms, and they stared down at it, gazes wide and disbelieving.

“Is that -,”

“Yep,” he answered.

“But how did it -,”

“I dunno.” They searched Duckworth for answers. His infallible response was more than they expected. His stiff shoulders shrugged in the most dignified manner he was able to orchestrate. Whatever answers he held, he did not plan to offer them to a group of unruly, reckless, and impulsive children.

Was alexandrite meant to be this heavy? It was similar to a domesticated chicken egg. He tested it in his palm and frowned at the strain. Far heavier than originally anticipated. Yet, vibrant violets and turquoise collaborated beautifully across the gem’s surface. He marveled at its stunning, invaluable shape, and quickly found himself infatuated, briefly forgetting Duckworth, Bolivar Jr., and the Bolivar that had recently tried to consume them.

“Dude,” Dewey said.

“Louie?” Webby asked.

“This isn’t the time,” Huey pinched his beak’s thin bridge.

Duckworth shattered his infatuated illusion with a single cough into his gloved, ghostly hand, “Young misses and young sirs, why it breaks my heart to disturb such a touching scene, but Mr. McDuck’s limousine has parked.”

Their heads shot to the ghost butler. “His what,” they said in perfect harmony.

“I said -,”

He repeated his sentence in the wake of their rushed exit. The five children out the door, through his former workshop, out of the conservatory, and back into the mansion. Duckworth and Bolivar watched their path grow louder and messier with every passing second. Bolivar Jr. sent him an exhausted, dough shaped stare that made Duckworth’s lower lip curl into a half snarl.

Bolivar lowered his head. His growl weakened into a pleading whine.

“A poor attitude, I must say.” He said stiffly, “There’s much work to be done. Up, up, with you, your mistress hasn’t resided in this house for some time, poor dog.”

Air blew roughly from his nostrils. A warning sign if there ever was one. He still gathered his sturdy body and turned to Bolivar Sr., where its collected remains littered the formerly clean and presentable sun room.

* * *

The backdoor was their safest bet.

They hurried down the back halls, maneuvering quietly through the kitchen - ignoring the incessant knocking on the pantry, and made it to the main foyer. Hidden behind a corner, Webby skidded to a halt. Scrooge was at the top of the first set of stairs, and she waved her hand for them to imitate her.

Scrooge’s distinguished scowl was ever present, and he reminded Beakley that he was not to be disturbed for the remainder of the day. Mrs. Beakley responded with a terse, “Yes, sir. Dinner will be ready at six.”

“Fine,” he grumbled.

They waited for him to disappear completely. Only the dull tapping of his cane was heard. The children breathed in relief and rounded the foyer completely, staring ahead in exhausted worry.

It was possible to travel in the opposite direction, thus making a full circle around the mansion. Obstacles near and far gave them pause. Going either way spelled doom. Webby thought quickly. If Scrooge was heading to his office, which he most undoubtedly was at this hour, there was time for them to pass by unnoticed. She inhaled calmly. 

“Okay, we can make it through without detection if we move quick and quietly.” She faced her comrades in trouble, and smirked at them, “Granny didn’t see us from the kitchen, and she probably won’t if we stay low.”

“Great idea.” Huey concurred, “But one problem.”

“What?”

“Opal returned to the kitchen five minutes ago.”

_ “What?” _

Three heads spun to Huey. He appeared tired, drained even from the afternoon’s events. His alertness hadn’t wavered. He discreetly pointed in the direction where Opal disappeared to. The saw a single, thick ringle disappear around the corner.

This couldn’t be happening, was their collective thought. Not now, not when they were feet from escaping discovery. Webby stared at Louie. Huey stared at Dewey. Disbelief created ulcers within the silence.

“Aw, phooey.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if they're going to actually use Bolivar in this series, but I say they're missing out on using a super cool dog.

**Author's Note:**

> Webby's and Louie's interaction always gives me joy for some reason.


End file.
